One second I’m making up wild facts about swallowtail butterflies to salvage my already-in-tatters entomology cover, and the next he’s lying back to “rest for a minute,” throwing his elbow over his eyes, and breathing quietly. Sleeping off the concussion—big no-no for humans, but a nonissue for slayers. His chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm, and he has to be fucking with me.

  No trained fighter lets his guard down this irresponsibly with someone he barely knows. Slayers are never this vulnerable. It can only be a trap.

  So I decide to kill him.

  I set the blade of my stolen dagger horizontally and lower it to his Adam’s apple, guillotine style. I’m strong enough to cut through the muscles and bones and tendons, and— Where is his self-preservation? Why the hell is he not stopping me?

  I slink back to my shadowy corner to sulk, convinced that he’s well and truly asleep. Okay. So his memory is gone. But shouldn’t there be some trace of an instinct, some emotional residue, an inkling that I am his enemy and that he shouldn’t trust me?

  Lazlo begins snoring softly.

  Clearly not.

  I lean back and study him, wondering about his life outside our centuries-long game of hide-and-seek-and-stab. Does he have a family? A girlfriend or a boyfriend? A polycule? Slayers are immortal until they’re beheaded. They are incredibly strong and enhanced in every conceivable way, sure. Deep down, though, they are still human. They long for connection.

  I bet he does have a family. They must be who he spends time with between hunts. After all, I don’t see him a lot. We usually only cross paths once a decade or so. Before Berlin, there was that Pink Floyd tour in 1980, and that David Bowie concert in the seventies, and . . .

  Now that I think about it, by liking live music as much as I do, I may have made it a bit too easy for him to find me.

  I chew on my lower lip, remembering 1964. My one-night-long career as a singer-songwriter. Does taking advantage of an open mic night at a seedy underground club qualify as “working in the music industry”? It should. I certainly had fun singing about youth counterculture. Even more so after Lazlo appeared in the audience.

  “Aethelthryth,” he whispered the second I spotted him in the crowd, his yellow eyes glowing even through the cigarette smoke.

  I strove to remember what weapons I’d stuffed into my go-go boots, and thought, Come on, Enyedi. Stop ruining my fun. Next song up is about how lonely I am, and how sad that I haven’t gotten laid in at least three hundred years.

  But Lazlo didn’t jump on the stage. Didn’t throw a hatchet at me, either. He simply let me croon on for a while, with my trite fire/desire and love/above rhymes. Patiently, he stared with that icy, unsettling gaze as I sang something cringeworthy about how no one understands, I just want to feel his hands. When my masterpiece ended, everyone applauded except for him.

  It seemed rude. Much ruder than the usual assassination attempts. So I decided he needed to pay for that.

  “Thank you, thank you, everyone. That last song, it’s very personal to me. I wrote it for the man I love.”

  The crowd cheered and whistled. Lazlo’s jaw hardened, probably in disgust at the thought of vampires having feelings. Or smooching. Or, even worse, fucking.

  “I haven’t seen him in . . . ten years or so? And I was heartbroken when he left me, which inspired me to pour my emotions into some music.” I lowered my eyes. Pretended to sniffle. “But, good news, he came back to me.”

  More scattered, good-hearted claps.

  “And he’s here tonight.”

  The crowd looked around, breaking into excited murmuring.

  “So, please, join me in welcoming the love of my life.”

  The chatter became louder.

  “Lazlo, thank you for being here.”

  I grinned at him. People followed the direction of my gaze, brazenly eyeing him. I watched his lips part and his expression flatten—Lazlo’s equivalent of a jaw drop. The hand holding his drink set the glass on the table with a loud thud.

  “Hi, honey,” I purred.

  The technician in the back must have been less stoned than usual, because lo and behold, a spotlight turned on, flooding Lazlo’s table and the tight purse of his lips.

  I bit back maniacal laughter. If the slayer forced the sunrise upon me because of this, it would have been worth it.

  “You are the only man for me, baby,” I whispered into the microphone.

  A giddy awww diffused throughout the room. Lazlo’s eyes were sharper than needles, but no one could pick that up. They would, however, have noticed if he’d chosen to stick a couple of swords through my chest. He had to restrain himself, and wasn’t that fun?

  “I hope you loved the song.”

  At last, he smiled. I could have sworn I spotted an amused dimple dipping within his cheek, but he mouthed a few words at me.

  I am going to kill you.

  I gasped. “What was that? Lazlo, did you just say that you’re going to marry me?”

  He only nodded because about sixty people were staring at him. The same reason I let out my most lovesick sigh. When his eyes burned into mine, I let them. “Lazlo, yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.”

  The cheers were so loud, no one heard the thud of my heels as I ran backstage. And since I slipped out the bathroom window and vanished into the poorly lit alleyway, he never did catch up with me to do all that killing he’d promised. But now, watching Lazlo sleep like a baby, I cannot help wondering why I didn’t once think of that night in the past sixty years.

  And, oddly enough, I cannot help wondering if he ever did.

  Chapter 5

  I’d like you to walk me to the hospital,” Lazlo says at sundown as we step outside and into the chilly October Manhattan air. He glances around with a very convincing I am but a tourist, new on this planet expression, his face tilted up in wonder toward the skyscrapers. Exhibit number 237 of authentic amnesia.

  My first instinct is to agree. Eagerly. I let myself contemplate the bliss of dropping him off at the ER, where he’ll become someone else’s problem. But given Lazlo’s not-quite-human biology, being examined by a doctor could get him in serious trouble. I want to get rid of him, and I’m ready to murder him in a me-or-him situation, but I wouldn’t wish being stuck in some underground lab and experimented upon on my worst enemy.

  Which, coincidentally, is what Lazlo is.

  “Are you sure you want to go?” I ask. “You may not have insurance, and hospitals are very expensive. Your memory will probably come back on its own now. But I’ll still help you out. I could just take you to your home and—”

  “Where do I live?”

  Shit. “That, I’m not sure.”

  He stops in his tracks, right in the middle of a busy sidewalk, forcing the people behind us to sidestep him. If he were anyone else, New Yorkers would be pushing him into traffic. But Lazlo is tall; covered in striking, unique tattoos; built like a small skyscraper himself. He doesn’t exactly ooze agreeability. The most they level at him is a side-eye.

  Meanwhile, he is ogling me like I should feel guilty for not knowing where his house is.

  “Honestly, I’m not even certain you have a place in the city,” I say defiantly. “Told you—nemeses.”

  “Sure. What about my work?”

  “The Guild?”

  “Is that what the pest control company is called?”

  “Yup. No Pest for the Guilded is your slogan.” I nod. Surely it’ll make the weirdness I just spewed much more convincing. “As far as I know, they don’t have a physical HQ.” Which is true enough.

  His eyebrow lifts. “Let’s call them, then.”

  “I don’t have their number.”

  “I’m sure we can find it online.”

  My snort is artfully disdainful. “They are a boutique pest control company, Lazlo. They are not on the interweb.”

  He folds his arms over his chest, clearly ready to throw me into traffic—which, somehow, seems preferable to the sly grin he breaks into a moment later. “Okay. Since you can’t take me to my home or to my workplace—”

  “A hotel is the only—”

  “I accept your offer.”

  I blink. “What offer?”

  “To help me out.” His eyes gleam. “Lead the way, Ethel. I’ll follow you to your home.”

  “What is this gluten that everything seems to be free of?” “This is the fourth store that claims to sell the best bagels in New York City,” and “The two things might be unrelated, but I noticed fewer rats in places with more hot dog carts” is only a selection of the commentary Lazlo treats me to on the way to my place. I find myself having to school the equivalent of a Martian dropped on Earth on the treachery of agglutinating proteins, but I don’t mind, because it’s better than dwelling on the insanity of my own actions.

  I am taking.

  A vampire slayer.

  To my home.

  No: I am leading the oldest and most feared vampire slayer in existence to my place. Despite being a vampire myself.

  What a time to be undead.

  At least you still have a home, I tell myself, hoping for a positive spin. Teenage Dirtbag burst into flames when Lazlo shoved him into the sun, which means that I won’t have to move out of my beloved apartment.

  The thing about immortality is, it’s almost impossible not to build vast amounts of generational wealth. Money hasn’t been an issue for me since Pope Leo III crowned Charlemagne as the Roman emperor, and I’ve circled through several accommodations and living arrangements throughout the years, including manors, Transylvanian castles, penthouses, parsonages, farms, temples, cabins in the woods where the mosquitoes tried to drink my blood, casino hotels, lighthouses, nuclear bunkers, and McMansions with more chimneys than bathrooms. What I have learned is that less is more.

  Well, not true. Less is less. But that’s okay, because less is a good thing. Having an arcade room doesn’t much enhance my enjoyment of existing, so in the last few decades I’ve been gravitating toward small, cozy apartments.

  Even smaller and cozier now that Lazlo is standing in it.

  “I live alone,” I say.

  He nods distractedly, leaning forward to take a close look at the fern I’ve been schlepping around from residence to residence for the last ninety years. “I know.”

  “You do? How?”

  “Hmm?” He glances at my pile of frayed sudoku magazines, then turns to me.

  “How did you know that I don’t have two spouses and three sets of quintuplets?”

  “I just do, Ethel. Just like I know”—his mouth twitches—“other things.” His smile vanishes when he catches sight of his own face in a mirror. He stares, perhaps shocked by his own good looks—because, sadly, they are good. And he is handsome. Grossly so, despite the broken lines of his nose, the scars lining his skin, and his face that’s not fully symmetrical, like he was painted by an artist self-assured enough to bend the basic rules of anatomy.

  “Did you not remember?” I ask. “What you looked like, I mean. You seem disturbed.”

  He turns to me and blinks in confusion. “Not by my face. Just my eyes.”

  “Oh. Well, that expression right there, the glare? It’s by far your favorite. Your only, some would say.” He treats me to a particularly nasty one, and I can’t help but chuckle.

  “The color, I meant. I thought they’d be . . . I don’t know.” He sounds more hesitant than I’ve heard him before, ever, and I am tempted to tell him that I know why: All slayers have yellow eyes. It’s a by-product of what they’re put through to become what they are, which I’ve heard includes yearslong training by teachers who are not particularly nurturing, and a final rite that often ends in a massacre. Amber is the mark of a full-fledged, immortal slayer, whose eternal mission is to destroy vampire bloodlines. Something else I’ve heard: The Hällsing Guild has been struggling to recruit new members, because becoming immortal no longer feels like a privilege, especially if given in exchange for spending several lifetimes going after creatures who are likely to stuff your left foot up your ass before snapping your head off.

  I try not to think about it too much: that slayers, just like vampires, were once humans. We both had to adjust to becoming something new, to the idea of infinity, and that’s no easy feat. Maybe Lazlo’s self-image is tied to what he looked like before becoming a slayer, and his little brain is still buffering over it. But it’s going to catch up any second now, and when it does, he needs to be gone. He can stay the night, sure, but tomorrow I’ll kick him out and—

  “Ethel?” he asks like he’s been saying my name for a while.

  “Sorry, what was that?”

  “Is it okay if I take a shower?”

  Is it? Who knows what kind of tattoos he’ll find under that shirt and jeans. Maybe his inner thigh is where he keeps a tally of all the vampires he’s killed. Inked on his chest, he could have a photorealistic rendering of himself throwing someone who looks eerily like me into the sun.

  Guess I’ll have to run that risk. “Sure. Towels are in the bathroom.” He heads in the direction I’m pointing, and the breadth of his shoulders makes me think of something. “Are you hungry?”

  He stops. Nods.

  Shit. “Great. That’s just great.”

  “It’s great that I’m hungry?”

  “Only in the sense that I’m hungry, too. So hungry. I’ll go down to the store and pick up something.” I dash out of the door like it’s being firebombed and head to the Duane Reade downstairs.

  I am, of course, not hungry. Because vampires don’t eat. Our bodies reject food in a spectacularly cinematic fashion that would find itself well at home in a vintage horror movie. This is true about any solid or liquid item that isn’t human blood—no matter how close they may approach it. I once took a sip of a bonobo, and hurled intermittently for the following six months. Our species has a clear case of hot-girl tummy, and I’m grateful to the twenty-first century for giving us a final diagnosis.

  Back in the nunnery, though, I used to be able to cook. Quite well, according to Sister Wihtburh, even though the abbess would always find some reason to publicly bitch about my meals. Oversalting will not bring you closer to godliness, Sister Aethelthryth. If you are trying to hide your sins behind a curtain of rosemary, you have nearly succeeded. Unfortunately, my last pantry and scullery duties were so many centuries ago, I’m not sure I even remember how to boil water.

  Which is an issue, since all I can think of purchasing is several boxes of mac and cheese. I add a clean T-shirt and a pair of sweats to the basket—the largest sizes I can find, yet somehow unlikely to fit Lazlo. I run back to my apartment, and step inside just as he walks out of the bathroom.

  Naked.

  Chapter 6

  Iguess Lazlo is wearing a towel around his hips.

  But spiritually, culturally, metaphysically, he feels naked. And yes, he does have ink all over his body, but it seems to be less focused on narrating the misdeeds of Vlad the Impaler and more on commemorating . . . his childhood, perhaps? Family? For the most part, it’s that same old Hungarian script as on his neck and arms, but I also spot flowers that I’ve only ever seen in Eastern Europe, a castle, a coat of arms. On his chest, right on top of his heart, is an ornate Venetian eye mask that looks eerily familiar, but I cannot place it.

  “Why are you holding your breath?” he asks after a long stretch of staring, because I’ve been a little too immobile. Vampires do need air, but given the slow crawl of our metabolism, not nearly as much as humans. I could inhale one day, exhale the following, and still be in peak shape.

  And yet, I’m suddenly winded. “Sorry, I was just . . . admiring.”

  His eyebrow rises.

  “The artwork,” I hurry to add.

  “Sure. Right. Because it’s the first time you’ve seen it.”

  “Yeah, of course it is.” Why is he smiling like we’re sharing an inside joke? “When would I have seen it?”

  He stares as if to challenge me, then folds his arms in a beautiful ripple of muscles and colorful ink. “This place feels familiar. But I’m sure you’ll tell me that I’ve never been in your apartment.”

  If he had, I’d be dead. “Maybe you did some pest control work for the previous tenant?”

  “I must have done a piss-poor job of it, considering.”

  “Considering what?”

  He points at a spot above my head. When I turn around, there is a giant—

  “Spider!” I scream, running to duck behind Lazlo. It’s big and streaked in yellow and gross, and God, I’ve always hated arthropods.

  “Interesting,” Lazlo muses.

  I whimper, “What?”

  “An entomologist who is afraid of spiders.” He turns to face me. “How unusual.”

  Shit. Fuck. I straighten and collect myself. “It’s a very rude assumption,” I say haughtily, “that just because I study insects, I have to like all types of—”

  “I have a lot of scars,” he interrupts, conversational. “All over my body.”

  “ . . . Okay.”

  “Some are big.” He points at a thick, knotty line that bisects the middle of his abdomen. “I wonder how I got this one. It must have been deep.”

  Unless I’m mistaken, I gave it to him in Bath during the 1800s. I was having a grand old time choosing ribbons for my bonnet when he galloped into town and forced me to move to France, where Napoleon was still pursuing his military dreams.

  I clear my throat. “Pest control is a dangerous profession.”

  “Must be,” he says, meaning: No, it isn’t.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “No. But since you asked, something is bothering my left rib. Could you check?”

  Absolutely fucking no, I plan to say. But just like all the other noes I should have said today, it remains stuck in my throat, and I’m somehow sliding my fingers up his flank and over his flank.

  For a split second, we both freeze, and I’m not the only one who’s not breathing. The room falls into an unnatural layered silence. Lazlo glances down at me with that inquisitive, slightly accusing expression that seems to chew at the lining of my stomach, and I try to return the stare without looking too wide-eyed and guilty, but there is something here. Something that jumps from me to him, that flows from him to me. A current, a heat, a moment of confusion and deluge that clogs my senses, and . . .

 

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